pools of dead energy: Acts 19

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It wasn’t until I moved that I discovered my old apartment had been full of pools of dead energy.

“Why are you moving,” people asked.  Their question bewildered me.

“I don’t need all the space,” I would say.  “I’m almost an empty nester.  My daughter’s at boarding school.  My son’s heading off to college.”  They would remain silent, perhaps nod.  My answer didn’t seem to satisfy them.  I would try again.  “The maintenance sky-rocketed because real estate taxes in New York went up.”  Again, they would look unconvinced.  I wasn’t sure why.

And then I moved.  My new apartment is snazzy and shiny.  The previous owner is a gifted decorator – and my new best friend – and I gave away everything and anything that didn’t seem as snazzy and shiny as her kitchen and bathrooms.  If I hesitated about whether I really needed something, I gave it away.  My daughter and I have a “love it” rule when we go shopping together.  Unless we both love it, we don’t buy it.  I tried to apply the same rule to setting up my new apartment.  If I didn’t love something, out it went.  I told myself someone else would love it.

As a result, the new apartment has only things we cherish.  Everywhere I turn are only needed things.  Each shower has one shampoo, one conditioner and one soap.  Each closet has only clothes we wear.  Each shelf has only shoes that fit.  Each medicine cabinet has only unexpired antibiotics.  The pantry holds only food we actually eat.  Each shelf has only phone chargers for phones we actually still own.

One of my first visitors pointed out I might have overdone it.  He walked in and discovered the living room was down to a single lowly love seat.  “You sure you didn’t give away TOO much,” he asked.

But here’s the thing.  When you clear out the clutter, two things happen.  First, you discover that what’s left appears new.  And second, you’ve made room for something else, something better, something you’ve always wanted.

Because I discovered that the old apartment had collected what my friend Christina Culver calls pools of dead energy all over the place.  I hadn’t known it.  I hadn’t realized it.  I hadn’t even felt the stagnant waters until I moved to dryer ground.

And yet on some level I must have felt it.  Hadn’t I wanted to move, after all?  Perhaps the reason my friends seemed unconvinced by my explanations was that they sensed in my voice a hidden reason, a deeper reason.  Had I needed to let go of the past?  Had I needed to shut the door on old memories to make room for the new?

Or perhaps I had needed to remove all the what ifs from my life.  I love shows on hoarders because their excess – open the door and out spills so much junk they can’t even turn around – reminds me of myself on a smaller level.  I am the Queen of What Ifs.  What if ten teenagers decide to sleep over?  I have ten pillows.  What if there’s a hurricane?  I have an LED lantern.  What if we revert to the time before electricity?  I have six boxes of matches.  You don’t even want to know how overstuffed my suitcases are when I travel.

But God doesn’t call us to a life full of back up plans.  He calls us to a life of immediacy.  He wants us to live with joy.  That means He wants us to dwell in a place of beauty and love which can only be achieved by depending on Him every moment of every day.  The bottom line is: God wants us to rely on HIM to meet our needs.  When Jesus becomes the air we breathe, we discover anything else feels like trying to survive on carbon monoxide.  We can’t  smell how deadly it is, but we sense we’re not getting what we need.  God calls us to abandon all the what ifs.  Instead, He asks us to rely on Him for the what is.

The things in our lives we cling to – all of our what ifs and maybes and just in cases – hold us back from the life of joy and peace God longs to give us.  Like the crowd who gathered round Demetrius in a rage in Acts 19, most of us don’t even know why we collect these things around us that weigh us down.  As Demetrius put it – even though he was trying to make the opposite point – idols made by human hands are not really gods at all.  By definition – how can they be?  We’re not God.  So if we made it, it can’t help us.  Worshipping manmade things only diminishes us.

And more than our possessions, there are worse things we hold onto.  We cling to past hurts.  We nurse our wounds.  We remember the lies people have told us about ourselves.  We hear the sneering voices that told us we weren’t good enough, lovable enough, or just plain enough enough.  Instead, we like the new believers in Acts 19 can make a pile of all our contingency plans and bad habits and false beliefs and burn them up.  We can cast out the old on a collective bonfire to make room for the new.  We can instead accept God’s truth.  We can hear the voice say that God loves us just as we are.  God knows us and loves us still and He will meet our every need and satisfy our every desire.

And the reason God can do this for us is that God Himself stepped into the deepest pool of dead energy of all.  Jesus went to hell – and back – for us.  He stepped in over his head in order to lift us up to dry ground.  Jesus covers our every flaw.  Jesus heals our every wound.  The cross covers our every imperfection with the perfection of Christ.  We are not enough — and yet in Christ we are more than enough.  He completes us in a way nothing in our hearts or our closets ever can.

God knows that we can’t just give things up.  He knows we will merely replace the old bad habits and thoughts with new ones – and cling to those just as tenaciously.  Instead, He asks us to step out of the pool of the dead and into the river of life.  There we will find a light that fills us to overflowing, enabling us to love others the way God loves us.  The only way to pure joy and peace is to walk hand in hand with the One who made us, who loves us, and who longs to fill us with His Holy Spirit.  All we have to do is listen to the joyful voice that calls us to let go and surrender.

And grace like rain will fall down on us, transfiguring the old, just as the light in my new kitchen transfigured the blue glass bowl in the picture above that my mother gave me years ago, that her grandfather had given her in turn.  I’ve always loved it but I never had a place for it before.  Just so, God makes a new place for us.  He redeems all the broken things of our past and makes even our scratched up selves glow like pools of living water.  It’s the miracle of a new life, of a new home, of moving to a place where God can make even the handkerchiefs that touch our skin heal us and others of every disease.

That’s why we move.  We move because we listen to that silent something in our hearts that says: it is time.  It is time to search for the river of life and dive in headfirst.  It is time to believe that God made our hearts to yearn for His light, His love and His Way.  He makes all things new every day – even our dried up stagnant hearts.  He asks that we abandon all anxiety and instead live in a new home with Him, a home full of trust and thankfulness and Love.  He wants us to depend not on other flawed humans, or on controlling our surroundings, or on ourselves but on Him and Him alone.  And in Him, we dwell in safety.

posted by Caroline Coleman in carolinecolemanbooks.com on January 8, 2013

the key to unlocking our stories: Acts 8

read Acts 8.  For most of us, stories are magical.  They transport us to another time, place, world and reality.  For shy people, they can help us understand others, empathize, and to feel as if, even when other people are opaque to us, at least the characters in stories – and perhaps their sensitive authors – are our best friends.  Stories take us out of ourselves, and yet somehow make us more ourselves.  Why?  Is it simply because we can picture ourselves as the hero or heroine, wielding jeweled-hilted swords, defeating smoky-voiced dragons and rescuing hapless victims?  Or is it because we recognize we’re made for more than just ourselves; that we are being woven into a tapestry larger than the corner of the world we can see; that we are both completely individual and yet somehow part of a community of love where our every choice matters, deeply, on a universal level.

All stories help us break out of prisons.  Some can break us out of prisons of being self-conscious and shy.  They break us out of more insidious prisons – of pride, selfishness, self-pity and self-centeredness – as Dickens tried to do, overtly, with his fiction.  They can break us out of prisons of ignorance.  And when they’re especially uplifting, like Laura Hillenbrand’s books, for instance, they break us out of prisons of gloom.

Beautiful writing can break writers out of a prison of jealousy.  Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited 
is so truly deeply good, that when I just re-read it, there was no room for jealousy.  I felt awe.  I actually teared up reading the beginning of it, the way a friend told me that his son in the business of animation wept the first time he saw Toy Story 1.  It was the way Salieri probably wept in his finer moments when he heard Mozart play.  It was the way a portrait artist might weep upon beholding a Vermeer.  When you spend your whole life trying to do something creative, you recognize a true masterpiece.  The harder you’ve tried, the more awestruck you feel when someone else succeeds.  You realize that there is genius there, greatness, the X factor, the je ne sais quoi, the thing you’ve striven for your whole life and missed the mark.

But have you really missed the mark?  Isn’t part of the reason we weep when we see truly brilliant creativity in a field we do ourselves because we know that we, too, in our finest moments have at least touched glory?  Maybe we couldn’t sustain it for the length of a novel, a symphony, or an entire tennis match, football or soccer game – perhaps even more than a few brushstrokes – but we know when our hand, too, has felt guided as if by a divine force.  We call this feeling of losing ourselves in creativity by various names in various fields – inspiration, the striking of the Muse, being in the zone – but we all know it when it happens to us.

That’s probably at least part of what’s going on when a magician named Simon believes in Jesus when he first hears about Him, and then turns around and tries to buy his power the next.  His first reaction strikes me as the reaction of someone who has tried to wield magic, falling at the feet of the One True Magic.  His second reaction – trying to buy the power – is the natural human reaction.  We move from awe to jealousy.  We’ve all done it – this kind of flip-flop between melting at the sound of truth – and then being jealous of it and wanting it for our own glory.

At first, Simon melts.  He wan’t just a two-bit magician.  He’d been called the “Great One – the Power of God,” and he’d “astounded” the people of Samaria with his magic “for a long time.”  Acts 8:4-25.  Maybe that’s why Simon believed so quickly; Simon’s magic might have fooled the people, but clearly it didn’t fool Simon.  He knew that no matter how “good” he seemed – or even was – he still wasn’t good enough – not when compared with the true power of God. Maybe that’s why he believed the moment he heard the Good News of the cross.

But when Simon saw Philip perform “signs and great miracles” and then saw Peter and John lay hands on people and pray for them to receive the Holy Spirit, Simon couldn’t take it any more.  He offered to buy this “power”.  He’d stopped seeing God’s love as something that freed him from prison, and locked himself back in a prison – the prison of wanting power over people.  That’s probably why Peter rebukes him so sternly.  Peter doesn’t mince words.  He tells Simon: “you can have no part in this, for your heart is not right with God.”  He accuses Simon of “wickedness” and “evil thoughts.  He concludes with the chilling words: “for I can see that you are full of bitter jealousy and are held captive by sin.”

Who wants to be held captive by anything?  Who wants to have “bitter” jealousy of other people’s gifts?  It’s a horrible way to live – and yet everyone knows the bitter feeling of jealousy.  It’s ugly, but it hits all of us.  Simon, perhaps sensing the ugliness of it, begs Peter to pray for him, and boom.  That’s the end of Simon.  We’re left wondering what became of him – and hoping he turned his back on the bitterness and embraced joy again.

The story moves from Simon into one of my favorite stories (okay, they’re all my favorite).  But this one is truly lovely.  An angel tells Philip to go down a desert road.  Philip obeys and discovers a Christian’s greatest gift: a man is reading aloud from the Bible and invites Phillip to explain it to him.

When you know how beautiful Scripture is, there’s nothing more wonderful than someone else wanting to know, too.

The man who invites Philip is a eunuch.  He’s the treasurer of the queen of Ethiopia, and he’s reading a prophesy about Jesus written in the prophet Isaiah.  It’s always moved me that the particular prophesy the eunuch reads ends with the words: “Who can speak of his descendants?”  The eunuch will have no descendants because someone mutilated him when he was young.  So when the man whose ability to have children had been robbed of him asks Philip if the prophet was “talking about himself or someone else,” we sense that the eunuch is asking not just if this is a prophesy but also, on some level:

IS HE TALKING ABOUT ME?????

And that question – is this story about me – is at the heart of what we love about stories.  Isn’t that one of the things we always want to know when we read stories?  Even as we celebrate the particularity, individuality and specificity of stories, we long to crack them open into something more universal.  ARE they about us?  Are they about us on some cosmic level that we sense but can’t prove?  Are we the only ones who feel this way?  Is anyone else lonely?  Is anyone else full of self-pity?  Is anyone else desperately mourning their inability to have children – or mourning that their children have grown up, or grown distant? Is someone else weeping because they were mutilated or damaged as a child – perhaps even by someone they should have been able to trust?

And what we want to know most of all is: is there a God up there, out there, who somehow allowed all this to happen, and yet can possibly care about us?  Is the God of the Bible talking about US when He says He loves us?  Does He see us?  Does He care?  Does He?

So Philip explains the Good News to the eunuch.  Yes, yes and yes is Jesus’ answer to all our questions.  The Bible says all God’s promises are made yes in Jesus Christ.  God made us in His image.  He is the creator and He is love, so we, too, were created to love, and to create.  That’s probably why we are at our happiest when we lose ourselves in the act of creation.  We feel connected to the divine in those moments – which is why there’s no room for jealousy.  We know we’re part of something more beautiful than ourselves.  We know our deepest longings can be, and even are, fulfilled in losing ourselves in creation.  And so when we read that God created the world knowing it would fall – and therefore knowing He would have to die on the cross to redeem it – we sense the deeply sacrificial nature of true love, and we respond, because it is the One True Story.

And yet, we can’t stay on that plane.  We weep out of appreciation of the one true story one minute – and then want to use the gifts God gave us for our own glory the next.

Part of the good news is that God knows this about us.  God knew that if He made us as individuals, instead of robots, that we would choose to sin.  Adam and Eve did it, and we’ve all been doing it ever since.  Even if we act right, our hearts are never completely pure.  With sin, death, disease and dysfunction came into our perfect world.  And here’s where we get back to the Good News.  God loved us so much, He came down Himself to redeem us.  He died to lift us back into the heavenly realms, the place of creativity, joy and love.  All He asks is that we choose to step out of our prisons into the light.  He’s already unlocked the prison doors.  But He never forces us to take the first step.  He invites us to step out of the gloom and shadow and embrace the one true story – the only true story – the true masterpiece – the story of how Jesus Christ died to set us free.

But we have such trouble believing that, accepting it, and embracing it.  We’re in prisons of our own making.  So often we feel surrounded by invisible but rock solid bars of guilt, shame and fear.  They mire us in depression, complaining, bitterness and woe.  And the key is dangling before us at every minute.  We need only enter into the one true story – the deepest magic that every other story hints at – the story of Love dying for those who didn’t even love Him back.  God is standing at the door knocking – even if we, like Saul here, are persecuting every Christian we’ve ever heard of.  God forgives everything.  We need only admit we need His help.

If we do, He fills us with such love we feel more connected than ever to other people.  We discover a connection deeper even than the shyest child can feel sitting alone reading a storybook.  We discover a true connection that goes beyond ourselves, and our selfish focuses, because it’s based not on us, but on being woven together with Christ.  We become, on a level that’s hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it for yourself, brothers and sisters in Christ with other believers.

But even when we’re believers, our prisons are never far away.  Like Simon, who we are told did believe, we forget we’re released from prison by God’s sacrifice alone, and we think we can “earn” heaven; our gifts fool us into thinking we did it on our own, at least that now we can take the reins in our own hands and continue doing it on our own.  We look down on people who don’t happen to have our gifts – and this locks us in a prison of comparing ourselves to others.  In turn, it locks us in a prison of anxiety because there’s no security if our sense of worth is based on our achievement – and our achievement needing to outshine others.  It’s a horrible way to live – and yet we all do it.

That’s why the story of the eunuch provides such hope.  The eunuch – despite his powerful position in the queen’s retinue and his knowledge of money – knew He needed God to do the “buying” for him.  The eunuch – rejected and despised by men – knew what it was like for Jesus to be rejected and despised by men.  The magician – riding on the waves of his own illusion – chose to remain mired in jealousy.

How much better to respond to the message of God’s love for us with humility.  May we all, along with the magician, pray that God will give us humility.  May we all rejoice, without jealousy, when those people rejected by us and our society embrace heaven first.  May we see in their liberation hope for us all.  May our every weakness be transformed into strength.  May we rejoice in our weaknesses, instead of hiding them, because they enable us to see our desperate need for God.   And in the moment of dying to ourselves and our illusions of power, may we all embrace God’s new eternal life.  May we recognize the true masterpiece and melt at the sight and sound of it.  If we do, He invites us to enter into His story that goes on and on, forever, celebrating our individuality and yet weaving us together in a poem, a tapestry of love, that just won’t look right without every one of us in it.

by Caroline Coleman in carolinecolemanbooks.com on October 5, 2012

and if you don’t have a Bible yet, buy whatever translation speaks to you best…  the New Living translation (modern contemporary prose).
 The Amplified Bible (the one Joyce Meyer uses – with expanded explanations of every verse).
 The Message (Eugene Peterson’s wonderful rendering of the Bible into modern slang and usage).
 The New Revised Standard.
 The New King James.  
The original King James.
An audio version (Thomas Nelson has a 79 CD bible with Jim Caviezel as Jesus, Richard Dreyfuss as Moses, Gary Sinise as David, Jason Alexander as Joseph, Marisa Tomei as Mary Magdalene, Stacy Keach as Paul, Louis Gossett, Jr. as John, Jon Voight as Abraham, Marcia Gay Harden as Esther, Joan Allen as Deborah, Max von Sydow as Noah, and Malcolm McDowell as Solomon).
It doesn’t matter.  No matter which version you use, the Word is always active and alive.