✝️ Actively Dying vs. Actively Living — The Gospel of the Living Wire

When the Current Falters

There are seasons when even the faithful go dim.

You pray, but the line crackles.

You serve, but the joy’s gone static.

You keep showing up, but something sacred feels unplugged.

It’s not sin. It’s not failure.

It’s life reminding you that the current can’t run on performance alone.

We are living wire—not monuments of certainty, but conduits of a Spirit that hums, flickers, sparks, and keeps finding its way through us.

The truth is, most of us aren’t burned out—we’re undercharged.

We’ve mistaken “active dying” for “functional living.”

We’ve kept the lights on long after the breaker flipped.

Active Dying

To be actively dying is not about physical death.

It’s the spiritual decay that happens when motion replaces meaning.

It’s the slow suffocation of wonder.

You wake, scroll, work, collapse. Repeat.

You smile for the camera but not for yourself.

You post prayers you no longer feel.

You call that survival—but it’s rehearsal for resurrection.

Active dying sounds like:

“I’m fine.”

“It’s just a busy season.”

“I’ll rest when things settle.”

But nothing ever settles, and you never rest.

The soul doesn’t need your schedule.

It needs your surrender.

Active Living

To be actively living is not just breathing; it’s breathing on purpose.

It’s the radical decision to stay awake in a world that numbs.

It’s letting awe recalibrate your nervous system.

It’s finding humor in the unraveling and tenderness in the tension.

Active living means you cry when you need to,

laugh before you’re ready,

and forgive yourself in between.

It’s refusing to confuse progress with presence.

It’s choosing the hum of authenticity over the applause of alignment.

Active living begins when you realize:

Joy is survival.

Humor is holy.

And love—love is the current that keeps it all moving.

The Great Misunderstanding

Somewhere along the way, we started believing faith meant stillness.

That the holiest people were the quiet ones, unmoved, untouched, unbothered.

But stillness without flow is stagnation.

Holiness is motion—Spirit in circulation.

You don’t have to be serene to be sacred.

You just have to stay connected.

This is what the Gospel of the Living Wire teaches:

Divinity is not a destination—it’s conductivity.

It’s the movement of love through awareness,

awareness through joy,

joy through fire,

and fire through transformation.

You don’t “find” God. You conduct God.

Faith in the Fog

When life short-circuits your plan,

when your prayers echo back as static,

when you can’t see three steps ahead—that’s the sacred signal: you’ve entered the fog.

The map has burned because you’re meant to walk by vibration now, not vision.

The fog isn’t absence—it’s alchemy.

It slows your eyes so your heart can catch up.

It teaches you to trust resonance over reason.

Every uncertainty is a tuning fork,

every delay a recalibration.

Faith is not knowing—it’s humming anyway.

The Trickster’s Gospel

If you ignore the whisper long enough, the Universe sends a clown.

The car breaks down.

The plan unravels.

The week collapses.

That’s not punishment—it’s curriculum.

The Trickster shows up when our certainty has become idolatry.

It’s cosmic comedy meant to shake the ego loose.

If you can laugh, you can learn.

If you can laugh while learning, you’re already healing.

Because laughter is the language of resurrection.

The shadows have snacks for a reason.

They keep the light nourished while it waits.

The Feast of the Forgotten

Set a table for every version of you that didn’t survive the journey.

The one who tried to be perfect.

The one who carried everyone else.

The one who mistook exhaustion for holiness.

Invite them back—not to rule you, but to rest.

This is ancestor work for the self.

Feed them memory, feed them gratitude.

Then let them go.

Their job was to keep the light until you could carry it again.

We are not called to erase our past selves;

we are called to integrate them into our present wholeness.

Agni and the Fire of Refinement

Agni—the sacred fire—teaches that burning isn’t destruction; it’s revelation.

When the heat rises, the gold remembers its origin.

When your life feels like it’s on fire, it’s not divine anger—it’s divine metallurgy.

What you’re losing isn’t punishment; it’s polish.

What you’re releasing isn’t failure; it’s freedom.

You’re being refined, not erased.

And what emerges from that fire?

You—simpler, truer, incandescent.

The Lantern and the Laugh

Eventually, the wire steadies.

You realize joy is not the absence of pain; it’s the aftermath of surviving it.

Laughter returns like oxygen to a body that forgot it could expand.

You look at your life and whisper, “We made it this far.”

That’s resurrection. Not in scripture, but in nervous system.

You are the sermon now.

You are the spark that kept humming through the static.

Integration: How to Stay Alive in the Living Wire

1. Pause before you post. Ask, “Am I sharing to connect or to be seen?”

2. Name one thing that feels alive in you today. It doesn’t have to be grand. A single laugh counts.

3. Touch something real. Wood, soil, fur, flesh. Reconnect the current through sensation.

4. Honor fatigue. Tired doesn’t mean faithless. It means human.

5. Laugh on purpose. Even a small chuckle resets the circuit.

Faith that doesn’t move through the body isn’t faith—it’s theory.

Closing Benediction

Beloveds—The gospel was never meant to sit on paper.

It’s meant to run through people.

You are the Living Wire—divinity in motion, tenderness in voltage, grace in conductivity.

When your week unravels, when the lights flicker, when you lose the map—remember: the current never stopped.

You are not failing.

You are flickering.

And that flicker is proof that Spirit still speaks through you.

The shadows still have snacks.

The light still hums.

And together—we rise, current by current,

lantern by lantern,

into the horizon that hums with love.