Disengaged

Have you ever been vacuuming and wandered too far away from the outlet? This seems to happen to me almost every time I clean (so... maybe only once every couple months). I venture around a corner, wrap around a piece of furniture, or I stretch the line just a little too far. I don’t usually notice the extent of my distance until the power supply becomes intermittent. The vacuum cuts in and out. Glancing over my shoulder, I discover that the cord is now hanging from the outlet. Not unplugged, but not plugged in. Just hanging somewhere in the middle with little spurts of electricity here and there.

This past week, as this event played out again, I made a connection. This is my spiritual life. I’m disengaged. I’m the cord that’s hanging out of the outlet. Random spurts of power make their way into my veins, but for the most part, I’m uninvolved, disconnected, and inoperable. Without noticing, I’ve wandered too far away, wiggled loose and have been rendered nearly powerless as a Christian. When a spurt comes along, you might mistake me as being fully functional. I appear that way, I sound that way, and I may even serve a purpose for a time, but it’s short-lived, because I’m not plugged in. My cord is disconnected.

What shall I do about this predicament? The simple solution seems to be, “Get plugged in.” But simple isn’t working. Simple isn’t registering. Simple isn’t happening. For some reason, I’m just not doing it. Maybe I’ve become content with “disengaged,” “intermittent,” and “dysfunctional.” Maybe I’m not sure I can handle a constant power source. Maybe I’m afraid of what re-engaging will entail. Maybe I’m just lazy. All of these “maybes” make the simple not so simple. Plugging back in is undoubtedly the answer, but simple is not its descriptor.

Last week at Fusion, I asked the girls in the class to present a metaphor of where their hearts are at with God, and then to present a metaphor of where they want them to be. As I pictured this activity in the days that preceded the study, I envisioned dirty, disconnected hearts in the first set and clean, complete hearts in the second set. But as one girl presented her first metaphor, the truth became clear to me. She had drawn a picture – a heart crowded with many different emotions and experiences. Wounds were drawn upon the heart - some bandaged, some not. Hope was depicted as a shining sun over the edge of a horizon. Question marks loomed over one corner. Clouds and stormy seas raged one side, and peaceful calm waters trickled through the other. The heart was a true picture of her life, and it gave me a true picture of mine. The truth is our second heart will not be much different from the first in appearance (it will still hold an odd mix of holiness and humanness), but the difference between the first and the second is the latter is offered unto God. The latter is surrendered and entrusted into the hands of someone who promises that someday He will make it whole. The complete heart will be offered to us in heaven.

Right now, I offer the heart that I have (not the heart that I want) to God. If it’s disengaged, if it’s wounded, if it’s wishy-washy, that’s what I present to Him. I take it in the state that it’s in, and I lay it bare before Him. The beauty of the second heart is in its surrender. It’s the opening up of something before someone else. It’s making the inside known - not only visible but available. It’s an offering.

Today my offering is an intermittent vacuum cleaner. Tomorrow or even days down the road, I may just find the power supply unbroken, the cord reengaged, and the vacuum running once again.