There’s a story from the 1940’s about the French explorer Jacques Cousteau, who became obsessed with the ocean.
At the time, diving underwater was clumsy and rushed. Heavy suits. Limited oxygen. Constant urgency. Sounds like a nightmare to me.
Which, sadly, I tend to relate with spiritually. Most of the time I feel like I’m trying to manage some outcome. Trying to solve something that feels… wrong. Trying to fix something uncomfortable.
But Cousteau began noticing something strange underwater. Every time divers rushed, they stirred up sediment from the ocean floor. Visibility disappeared. Fish scattered. The water clouded. The harder they tried to see, the less they actually could.
So he experimented with something that felt almost irresponsible. He tried slowing down.
Then he slowed down even more.
Eventually he learned to simply hover in the water.
And slowly, the water cleared. Creatures returned. Light shifted. Spaces he had passed a dozen times suddenly opened into hidden wonders right in front of his eyes. Divers later described it this way: “The cave appears when you stop trying to find it.”
In other words: My frantic search to settle my soul might actually cloud the beauty disguised before my eyes.
I’ve been thinking about that this week as I read Acts 5. Because Acts 5 is not calm. The early church is wildly alive. Public. Uncontainable. Verse 12 says many signs and wonders were regularly being done among the people. Verse 14 says more than ever believers were added to their number. The movement of this new way was becoming impossible to ignore.
And naturally, the religious leaders panic.
Verse 17 says the high priest rose up in jealousy. Which feels important because jealousy almost always speeds me up.
When something tightens inside me, my instinct is usually:
I’ve got to do something.
I’ve got to do something now!
Then the apostles are arrested and thrown into prison. Wha-wha. But during the night, an angel opens the doors and tells them something super absurd: “Go stand in the temple courts and tell the people all about this new life.”
Not:
“Escape.”
“Hide.”
“Tone it down.”
Just:
Return.
Stand.
Continue.
And the next morning they’re dragged right back before the council again. This time Gamaliel enters the scene. And what fascinates me is not merely his wisdom, but his restraint. In a room full of anxiety and argument, he becomes strangely unhurried.
“If this is from humans, it will fade,” he says. “But if it is from God, you will not be able to stop it.”
In other words:
Wait.
Pay attention.
Don’t confuse urgency with discernment.
Which could be one of the hardest spiritual practices in my life. For most of my life, I’ve internalized the cultural commandment: Don’t just sit there, do something!
But the ancient tradition keeps whispering something pretty backwards:
Don’t just do something, sit there.
It feels like the deeper spiritual question in me is often not:
How do I get rid of this feeling?
How do I fix this circumstance?
How do I escape this tension?
But:
How do I move toward God here?
Can I trust God with my uncertainty?
My longing?
My jealousy?
My fear?
My incompleteness?
Can I remain present long enough for the water to clear?
Maybe maturity is less about conquering the interior world and more about learning to receive it with less interference.
Less thrashing about.
Deeper seeing.
Perhaps then, the sediment that clouds my vision can settle a bit and I might actually appreciate the world disguised just behind the veil of noise.